


No place for two

by HaruIchigo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Dark, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaruIchigo/pseuds/HaruIchigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal found his long-lost brother. But can brother and lover exist in his life together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No place for two

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Нет места для двоих](https://archiveofourown.org/works/895472) by [HaruIchigo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaruIchigo/pseuds/HaruIchigo). 



> It is an AU fic for the first season's ending. It was written near the same time, and Mischa's gender (minding the genderswap in TV series) and Lecter family affairs were unclear then.
> 
> It is a translation of my "Нет места для двоих" fic. English isn't my native language, so I want to express my special gratitude to Solovei, who helped me as a thorough and attentive beta.

...And then, there were doors. Many doors opening and slamming from the draught; When he went by, He saw empty rooms behind them. People, who lived there have died, – their deaths were horrid. And unfair, like any other.

For a moment He thought that He was dead too, but the touch he had felt all the way down, so warm against his hand, has returned. Someone was with Him in the darkness, reminding Him about another world now and then.

The world where something important was left behind.

Someone important.

Someone...

 

***  
      A warm hand has pulled Him up and out, and He regained consciousness, tangled in tubes and wires.

Empty.

"Mikael L", – the sticker on a drip bag said. The half of it seemed to be accidentally torn off, it lacked a family name, but the first name made sense. It was His, but He hadn't used it for so long, being  in the world of slamming doors, where names were stripped of their meaning, that now it felt alien and uncomfortable. It didn't fit.  
      He couldn't remember how he has looked like. The cheeks seemed to be bristly on the touch, the hair was curly. It felt right somehow.  
  The ward was half lit by the cozy yellow night light. Under it, on a table lay a book with a velvet bookmark – "Les Fleurs du mal".

Tweed brown jacket was neatly hung on an armchair.

Nothing there felt like His own. But it could be.  
      He pulled the jacket close to His face, trying to feel the reality of rough texture. The warm  smell of cologne hiding in the lining was familiar.

A good sign. He closed his eyes and allowed the smell guide him, like an animal, searching for memories.

But the memory found him first. It stood before him quietly, looking like a tall motionless man, – maybe the Death himself.

Only the Death doesn't bring coffee in a plastic cup. Death doesn't have such tired, such human wrinkles on his face.  
      But the eyes...

Those eyes were dead. The flecks of light enlivened their surface, but what was hidden beneath, in the dark hazel deep?  
      – Do you know who you are? – The voice so calming, low, a bit raspy and touched with some soft accent. – Do you know where you are now?

    – I am... Mikael. – It should be the right answer. It was an only answer he had. – I am in a... some sort of hospital. I think. And you... Do I know you?

The air of delusion dissipated. There was no Death, only a very prim and restrained man, very tired of the nights in an uncomfortable hospital armchair, trying hard not to show something... Some emotion unknown to Him.

– I am Hannibal, – said the man and carefully sat closer to Him, on His very bed. – I am your brother, Mischa.

Maybe it wasn't a bad thing. Maybe He had to do or say something.

And he said:

– Hi.  

 

***  
       
  Hannibal was coming to him every day. He was sitting in an armchair, holding Mischas's hand as he spoke. Without these visits the hospital would become a prison: nobody talked to him, even the nurse, who seemed to know English.

Hannibal gave her orders like a doctor and made jokes, but only in a language which sounded like French.

She always disappeared when they were trying to "exercise" Mischa's memory.   

– Do you remember our castle in Lithuania? – his brother asks, and the warmth of his hand is the same he felt there, in darkness. – It stands in a middle of a forest.  Our forest.

Mischa closes his eyes and tries to remember. Pendulum swinging. He sees golden autumn trees, falling leaves, and the stag watching cautiously, crowned with majestic horns.

And mushrooms. Lots of them. Like some strange vegetable patch in the middle of woods...

– I remember, – he says, smiling, and brother's old eyes become warmer.

– You were so little... You've barely spoke, but tried and tried to say my name right. I think you won't remember those times, but I'll never forget.

– I don't think I pronounce it right even now, – Mischa smiles shyly. – I just... I can't get used to having an older brother.  
– We'll start from the very beginning. – Hannibal's face is completely emotionless. Clear and calm, like a surface of a cold lake. – From the first childhood memories. I was always with you the first few years. I saw you grew and becoming smarter... You were the greatest wonder I have ever seen in my life, Mischa. My very own little brother, one and only. One of a kind.

He says it so intensely, as if they are connected stronger, not like any other people in the world, but this connection, the wire, maintaining this electricity was cut and lost in Mischa's dim conciousness. He reaches and tries to grab it...

– Our father... He had motorboats... Right? – he says carefully, looking into brother's eyes, trying to find the right answer. – I've helped him to repair it... The smells of grease and oil... And I liked when he started the repaired engine for the first time. That even, healthy sound...   

– No. – The short, strict word, like a whack of a school master’s ruler.

– Our father had nothing of that kind, Mischa. He was fond of swans. Big, beautiful swans on a lake. Try to picture them, imagination is a secret passageway of the memory.

 

He tries. He really tries. The sweat is trickling down his cheeks, the fire is starting in his head howling, burning, banging into his temples...

He can't remember the swans. Only the boat house and big bottles of gasoline glowing dimly inside.

The walls are twisting, bending around him, his hospital gown is completely wet from the sweat, he is such a pathetic fool right now...

But Hannibal doesn't care, – he hugs him, firmly and lovingly, like a favorite child, his cheek against the wet, curly hair, his fingers gently carressing the nape of the neck.

– Hush now, little brother. Don't strain yourself, please. You will remember. – His voice so soft and sweet, that Mischa wants to melt down in this sweetness, to wrap it over himself... – I will return you, and everything will be as it should. I will always be by your side. Together.

Mischa is so tired he completely believes him. He closes his eyes, inhaling deep the smells of cologne and aftershave. Clear, a bit bitter, sure masculine smells. The smell of reliable and firm male. His brother.

Everything will be as he says. He can be trusted.

Mischa somehow knows this.

 

They’ve made a great progress in a week. One night, Mikael dreamed about a lake and black swans, gliding silently across the still, mirror–like water, greenish and dark. He saw a neat boy, a little lord in something like a school uniform with shirts. He threw bread pieces to the swans, but they only hissed at him ungratefully, flapping their wings, splashing him with sparkling water drops. It was a bit scary, but fun, – Mikael saw himself, a little kid in blue overalls, hiding behind his big brother, looking at monstrous birds.   

  
      Hannibal has never given him any details. He just mentioned things, and Mikael was quick to find them in a murky depth of his memory. Dusty, muted scenes and blurred pictures came to life around him again.  
  The family had to leave their castle because of father’s diplomatic assignment – he could remember that much. The salty breeze, the cabin and high captain’s table, the hide–and–seek on the deck… Brother had always pretended that he didn’t see his ridiculous hiding places and can’t find him...  
      He told Hannibal about that, and brother listened attentively, maybe he was even pleased, – Mikael couldn’t really understand his emotions. Hell, he couldn’t even understand his own: everything was muffled, surreal, almost fading. Sometimes, he groped things, smelled them, tasted them even, to make sure that they were real.  
      When the small world of the hospital ward was explored to the core, Hannibal opened a new, bigger one in front of him – the tidy, well–groomed garden of the little private clinic at Cote d'–Azur.

      They were walking along the alleys, strewed with white petals, arm in arm, Hannibal holding him gently, but steadily. Mischa didn’t mind: he felt dizzy from sounds, smells and sunlight. Sometimes, the breeze smelled of sea salt, but he couldn’t see the water from here, – only sky, high and eerily vast.  
      It is hot, but not so hot as it was in Columbia, at the little hacienda where the family was hiding from… what?  
      Mischa can’t remember, and Hannibal surprisingly doesn’t want to talk about it. He presses his lips tightly, he walks in silence, as if searching for right words.  
      – We were unlucky enough to get in a middle of civil conflict, – he says, and Mischa suddenly sees the cliffs bleached with sun and dusty, tanned people with tired and beastly eyes.  
     

– Maradeurs killed our parents. Do you remember mother and father, Mischa?

 

Count–father, – diplomat, refined, English–like gentleman, generous and a bit prim sometimes, . He looked like Hannibal… No, of course, it’s Hannibal who looks like him.  
    
And mother… she was Italian, like brother said. Dark–haired, elegant, extremely beautiful, warm, her sweet scent, her clear voice were everywhere… Mikael wondered whether he looks like her or father. He scarcely got something from the dim surface of dark windows and polished banisters, but it wasn’t enough, so brother led him to a mirror in chief doctor’s outer office.  
      It was a big mirror in heavy gilded frame, like a door between wooden panels and maroon wallpapers. This door was open, and he could see Hannibal standing there, his hands on the shoulders of some unknown exhausted, pale grey–eyed man: half junkie, half martyr stuck between sanctitude and madness. The man had dark, wavy hair, unshaven cheeks, and looked nowhere near like Hannibal. No high, asian–like cheekbones, no unbeautiful sensuality – just simple commonly pretty face. Nothing from the Lecters.

It was confusing, painfully scary even. What if all this is a mistake? What if he is an impostor?

But Hannibal looked at him proudly, he was pleased at the sight, as if introducing him to an old friend.

– You are a living image of mother, – he whispered into his ear. – She would have looked like you if she was a man. A real Sforza.

Mikel swallowed a hard, spiky lump in the throat.

– But we… you and me… we are not...

– ...alike? No, Mischa, we have more in common than you think. Maybe not in the looks, but here… – his palm layed on Mischa’s heart. – We are the same. The same blood. The same mind. You will remember.

He kissed Mischa’s temple, lightly and gently.

– And now, I’d like to speak with doctor Arneau. I’ll leave you alone with yourself.

He has walked into the doctor’s office, leaving Mikael in front of the mirror to look at newfound self – pale, thin, clad in a white hospital gown. The outer office reminded him of the Rooms he peered into in darkness. And the mirror was The Door. For a moment he felt like his double behind the glass will turn away and leave, tired of waiting, so he sat on a couch, staring, forcing the double to stay.

The otherworldly feeling was growing stronger. Somebody’s heels clattered on the floor, like hooves. The phone rang. Somebody picked up.

– William Graham? – said the nurse somewhere in emptiness. – Pardon, we don’t have a patient by this name… yes, I am sure. You are mistaking.

The double in the mirror turned his head to the sound, and Mischa mimicked his gesture. He knew the name. It seemed, that he had met this man before. Long, long ago. Or heard about him.  

 

That night he saw a dream. A dream without rooms and doors. He lay under the bed, in a dusty, cozy darkness, looking at its cranky wooden ribs and white mattress bulging between them.

He wasn’t alone. A girl was lying beside him, her eyes open but unseeing, her mouth open wide, too wide for a human being, but silent, blood dripping from the teeth.

What were they hiding from? From life?

He has taken took her hand and felt cold skin slide under his fingers like a glove. It didn’t scare him; everything was strangely familiar.

“Maybe I’ve killed her”, – the thought was aloof and calm.

He closed his eyes…

...just to wake up in a slightly more real world, where the nurse was attaching a new dripping bag to the rack.

– What is it for? – he asked. – Am I sick?

The nurse didn’t answer, she just smiled at him and left.

Later he asked Hannibal the same question and the answer was simple: encephalitis

– You’ve lived alone in a middle of nowhere. No friends, no family… When I found you, you were in a terrible state, Mischa. In a terrible state of mind. And health.

There was so much love in his eyes, It made Mischa anxious; he winced

– And you weren’t afraid to take me from America to France?

– I must give you the best. And this hospital is the best one for you.

– When will I be free to go?

– When we, me and your doctor, decide that you are ready, – said Hannibal, gently squeezing his shoulder.

If they made that decision faster, he would want that. He got used to the hospital, and surprisingly, had no interest in outside world and alien people. His hands needed something to do, his brain needed something to think about, but his soul was full with Hannibal. Doctor Arneau and nurses didn’t impress him much – too plain, too nice, too boring, not to say vulgar in comparison with the brother. 

Brother was the only worthwhile man in this small hospital world, but Mischa suspected that it was fair even for the big world outside. Well, not so big – just a little town: red tiled roofs, a grey castle upon a hill and villas near the shore. Hannibal has rented a villa hidden behind a cliff, over the lonely beach fenced with iron bars, like a cage.

The villa looked like a dollhouse: small, neat, homely, but with a feeling of desolation all around it. Its walls were neat and whitewashed, and its windows were lit with warm yellow light in the evening. The light looked tender and beaconing from the beach Mischa constantly wandered at dusk, looking at waves which licked his footprints away as if he hasn’t ever been there.

Mikael Lecter lived a full life, reviving memories near the beautifully carved fireplace. Brother gave him a strange present – a narrow leather bracelet with two carved iron beads. Not masculine or feminine,a gift for kid or a teenager.

– You had the same bracelet as a kid. Don’t you remember little brother? You loved it so much, you’d wear it even in the bath.

Mikael remembered that. He remembered Nanny trying to remove the thing, he remembered himself– a little bouncy boy in a bathtub, splashing at shrieking at her.

How could he forget?

The feeling of a bracelet embracing his wrist helped him to submerge a little more into this life. It made him feel like a real man. The same with the new clothes: trousers, shoes, soft shirts and jeans, – real things, with their own individuality. They’ve made him real too. When he walked with the brother through the town, people greeted them both; they acknowledged Mischa’s existence, and he began to regain his flesh and bones. He wasn’t a ghost anymore.

 

The only unpleasant thing was brother’s unwillingness to hold his hand anymore. It was hard to exist and be real without the human touch, so Mischa tried to touch him occasionally. Even the pat on the shoulder was warmer than nothing. But still, it wasn’t enough.

The good thing – there was another pleasure he didn’t know before. A pure and sublime one:

The food.

He didnt’t think about it much in the hospital – he just swallowed up everything he needed to swallow, his mind was occupied with other things, but at his first evening at the villa, Hannibal opened a new door in front of him.

He didn’t remember what he was doing when brother called him for dinner. Maybe, he was reading something, – his nose bridge and eyes got tired from the glasses. The candles were lit, the table was gracefully set with dishes and napkins, as if Lecter the family expected guests.

Except there were no guests, only silence and the song of a nightingale hiding in a tree.

Mischa sat at the head of the lonesome table. He felt uneasy, like a princess in the charmed castle of an ogre. There were flowers and some food – colorful and unknown. It was strange to him, it didn’t wake up any memories or associations. It was nothing, and he waited patiently for brother, who’ll make it something, who will tell him what to remember and what to feel.

 

Brother has appeared in front of him as if from nowhere. He went to the table, his step light and graceful, and laid a plate with something green and pink, something cut and bright, and unknown like any all others.

But somehow, this dish was different, because Hannibal bent to him and whispered close to his ear:

– Bon Appetit.

Ever since that, the food became pleasure. A languid, sensual pleasure. The thoughts of tender meat, dripping with sauce, about salty blood with a slight taste of iron, about teeth cutting to the pleasant tightness of the meat’s texture became entwined with the remembers of hot whisper against the sensitive skin.

An exquisite, somehow forbidden pleasure.

Sometimes, they’ve cooked together, like parent and child could: Mischa did only the simplest things that don’t require much skill, but it didn’t bother him much. He liked to watch brother creating every dish like a work of art, liked to drink wine while peeling vegetables, like an adult, and lick the cream off the whisk like a child.

They didn’t talk much in the kitchen, but the silence wasn’t depressing. They didn’t need anybody else.

Sometimes there were guests: Doctor Arneau from the clinic, people from neighborhood villas, some distant friends, but Mischa didn’t like them. He was wearing glasses to protect himself, and always left the table early. These people were alien to him, and he became anxious around them.

They had something he didn’t, something he had lost. He thought that the word was “freedom”, but brother wrote it off to the lack of memories and personality.

In their “memory talks” they went up to the moment where Hannibal wasn’t much of a help to him.

–We have been living apart for the long time, – he said. This conversation seemed painful to him. – We’ve lost each other. You were adopted by an American family, and we considered you dead. – He paused. – Eaten by monsters. Ironically enough, our life has turned into a fairy tale in a twisted way. But all fairy tales are twisted on the inside. Ours has a happy end, though.

They’ve lived in different families, that’s why they became so different. Mischa tried to touch Hannibal’s past, but every time he got off the subject. He occasionally mentioned uncle’s house and France, but it wasn’t much of a story. Just fragments.  

Once, when the morning was especially hot, he went to breakfast in a blue kimono. It didn’t suit him at all, there was too much of a European in him, and when Mischa mentioned it, he suddenly heard a story of beautiful Lady Murasaki, who was so kind to a wounded, sullen boy, who didn’t talk and suffered from nightmares.

Mischa remembered some Japanese prints, a triptych in a stylish frame: courtesans, clad in layers and layers of clothes. Time made them bleak, but more expensive than they have ever been in their lives. This remembrance was connected with Hannibal, but he couldn’t remember why,

There were too many ways leading to his brother. The world moved around him, he was the central point, the sun and the God of Mischa’s universe. It wasn’t about love. Love was something they avoided speaking of.

Hannibal was real. Material. He sought for spiritual pleasures, but his existence was solid, built from many material things. He took special care of his body; he loved exquisite food and clothes made to measure. His whole life was a hedonistic way to sophisticated pleasure for body and soul.

He definitely existed. As for Mischa, he couldn’t be so sure about himself.

 

One Saturday they went on a picnic to the cliff hanging over the sea. Hannibal sat on a blanket under the tree reading a book, occasionally sipping tea from an elegant porcelain cup, Mischa laid near, his head resting on brother’s lap.

Below them kids were laughing and shrieking on a beach, their laughter was mixing with merry barking. There was a dog. It moved something in Mischa’s heart.

– I miss something, – he said looking at a distant pine forest.

Hannibal closed a book and dipped his fingers into the dark curls he liked to brush for Mischa in mornings.  
–  Something? Or someone?  
– I don’t know. – Something moved between the pines. Shiny like a glass, or a mirror. Hannibal’s hand stopped caressing Mischa’s ear. – I think… it is someone,

Mikael rose to his feet. He became embarrassed suddenly, as if the man in the pines saw him doing something inappropriate.

It was the first time he thought that probably he’d better not to touch brother so much.  
       
      ***

He developed a strange habit of sleeping with his hand hanging from the bed. Every night, being half–asleep, he caressed the empty air, the silhouette left in a memory space like a light square on a wall where a picture had been hanged.  
      He understood that he had a dog once.  
      Hannibal hasn’t told him about the dog. He told that Mischa had no one, that his life was a lonely and empty one. Maybe, brother didn’t know him so well?  
      Once upon a time, in USA, lived Mikael Lecter. He had an adoptive father, who has been repairing motorboats  
      He had a dog. This dog has been sleeping next to the bed on a rag.  
      He had a woman with beautiful dark hair. Sometimes, she comes to his dreams and looks at him with so much pity that he wants to kill her out of shame.

He had a girl. A daughter, maybe, and it was good, but painful, oh so painful, that one night this pain woke him up.  
  The room wasn’t his. There was no dog, there was no tall grass outside the window, no forest.  
      Mischa wrapped his naked body, so white in the moonlight, so not his, in a bathrobe and went to roam the dark, silent house, trying to find something that really belonged to him.  
      He didn’t want to wake Hannibal up; he imagined brother sleeping on fresh silky linen, flawless and perfect even in his sleep. As if he was dying every night, leaving his soul to wander in the darkness.

Mischa remembered the girl with a torn mouth, who lay under the bed. It was nice, to lay beside her. It was nice to be with someone. And it will be even nicer to be with brother.  
      He stayed in front of brother’s door for some time, too shy to enter, and when he took courage to enter it, at last...  
      ...There was a bright afternoon of Thanksgiving Day behind the Door,  
  The family sat at the dinner table, and Mischa sat with them. He killed them one by one. One bullet for each. The last one – for mother.  
      – Will? – someone said over his ear. The voice was cross and demanding. – Are you alright? Are you sure?  
      The shadow lingered behind the flapping curtain, and Mischa understood, that it was Will Graham, The last survivor he hadn’t a bullet for.  
      The witness, who need to be removed.  
      The gun didn’t fire.

The shadow has disappeared, and everything crumbled down to pieces, to ashes...  
     

The first thing he has felt – brother’s lips on his forehead.  
       
Brother sat next to him on a bed, fully dressed, his eyes dark. The room and the bed was his, the dim light of a lamp was his..  
      – Sorry, – said Mischa. He didn’t really know what he felt sorry for,  
      – You shouldn’t wander at night, – Hannibal’s voice was cold. – See? You have a fever now.  
       
      – I won’t do this again, I promise… fuck, I’m talking like a kid. I do it sometimes… didn’t you notice?  
      – It is a side effect, – Hannibal relented and caressed his cheek gently. – We’ve worked with your early memories. We will turn a child into an adult, Mischa. You will grow into a fine man.  
      – A child, huh... – Mischa sighed. – May I sleep with you tonight?  
      – You should sleep in your own bed, Mischa.  
      – Please, just once. I know this sounds stupid, but… Just once. Please, brother. – He clawed the sheets, his fingers cramped from strain.  
      Hannibal turned the night lamp off.  
      – You’ve called me brother for the first time, – he said softly, and Mischa heard his voice breaking. – Do you love me?  
      – Of course, – the question seemed strange. – We are brothers.  
      The silence fell. The moon hid over the cloud, bringing darkness, like at the end of the world.

– Are you here, Mischa? – it wasn’t brother’s usual voice. It was coarse, trembling.

– I’m here, – said Mischa, searching for his hand in the dark.

– Are you alive? Don’t lie to me.  
– I am alive. – He moved forward… and bumped into brother’s forehead slightly. Brother was first who laughed. It was a strange laugh, sad, almost like a whimper, as if the air couldn’t get out. Mischa didn’t care.  
      They laughed quietly, as if trying not to wake someone up. They’ve hugged each other closer and closer, until Mischa forgot how to breathe.  
      But they’ve breathed somehow. Inhaled each other’s air, grew into each other…

Someone stared at them from the window. The shadow behind the curtain…

– It’s just a chestnut tree, Mischa. Sleep.

Yes. just a tree. Not the man. Not the last witness.

    
       
      ***  
      – I dream of killing people, – said Mikael, placing a thin slice of a boiled meat on a salad leaf. The fresh newspaper was lying next to him. He didn’t know French, but the words «meurtre» and «Marseille» were familiar.  

– Oh. – Hannibal casually refilled his glass of orange juice. – Tell me about these dreams.

 – Sick. Distasteful. – Mischa winced in disgust. – Always different, but always the same. I don’t just kill, the feelings are always different. The motives are always different, as if I’m somebody else every time.

He looked through paper. Aimlessly, just to hide his eyes.  
– Please, Mischa, keep talking, – brother asked. – And don’t read at the table. You can do it after the breakfast.  
– Maybe I just need to return home, – Mischa lay the newspaper down.

– Your home is here with me.

–Yes, but what about you? You can’t just abandon your practice at… Baltimore, is it? We can live together in America.      

Hannibal paused before an answer.

– I… got a bit tired of America, – he said indifferently– I’m more than happy to get a vacation, besides, Europe suits us better.

– We can return to our castle. – Mischa took a bite of meat and closed his eyes. Too good. Too tasty.

– It needs renovation. It will be too expensive for us.

– Yeah... it was too big.

– No, it’s you being too small.

They exchanged smiles. The dream talk faded; after the breakfast Hannibal handed him a pack of small white pills to take before sleep. Mischa promised to take them, but the empty rooms and swinging doors were luring him further and further away. There was his past. There was a man he occasionally named “Will Graham”, – that name he overheard at the hospital.  
      He searched for Will Graham, opening one door after another, sneaking with a gun or a knife in his hand. He killed everyone he found there, but all in vain.  
      Will Graham was a shadow behind the curtain, the footsteps on the stairs, the squeak of rubber gloves.  
      He was leaving a working projector in an empty lecture hall.  
      He was leaving wet towels on the shower floor.  
      He was lighting a fire in the mantelpiece in cold evenings.  
      He just was.  
      The real person was Mikael himself.

He had never thought that it was so difficult – being real, – because the brother began to appear in his dreams. He just stood there in the shadows, watching, as one will watch after a playing child, even when Mischa skinned people to turn them into angels.  
      His gaze was the gaze of a lover.

Too much of a lover. Mikael couldn’t stand it; he was waking up from the orgasms, tangled in sweaty bedsheets, lost in the murky warmth of the night.  
      It was the hottest time of the summer. Hannibal has often wore his kimono at home, and Mischa spent such days on the beach. Just not to watch. Just not to think about the light silk against the bare skin.  
      The world became too real. But wrong, like theatrical props,  
  Brother can’t desire the brother.     
He was no longer a child, like Hannibal predicted. He was twisted. The whole existence was twisted. Wrong.       

Black swans on a black pond, dark–tanned soldiers in rags who chain kids to the wall, baby bathtub full of shiny white bones, dirty orphanage, where children fight for food. Nothing healthy would grow on this soil.       

Mikael wasn’t healthy. He wasn’t normal. He wanted desperately to lose himself again and became someone new. Someone, who wasn’t related to Hannibal at all.  
      Someone who had a right for desire and sex.  
And there, sitting on the beach, playing with neighbors’ golden retriever, he saw her for the first time, – the red–haired woman on a cliff, with her camera flaring in the sun.  
  She didn’t try to talk to him, but the next week, when the Lecter brothers, – Hannibal in a white suit, Mikael in blue polo shirt and flaxen trousers, – drank coffee on a terrace of the town’s caffee, the waiter–boy secretly placed a piece of napkin in Mischa’s hand.    

“2 A. M. on the beach. Freddie”. That’s all.

Hannibal didn’t seem to notice.

 

Mischa reread the note several times, trying to recall who “Freddie” was. He couldn’t dig out anything but slight irritation. He paced the room, trying to figure out if he should go or not. He thought of a real Mikael from the past, as if it’s him who will wait on the beach. As if they would finally become one real man with memories. Hannibal Lecter’s brother, who has no right to desire him, a twisted and perverted one.

Would it be better to remain half–stranger? To remain something in between pet and child that doesn’t know the word “no”.

He chose something in the middle.

 

In a starless night he went, shivering from the night breeze. He trotted down the stone steps leading to the beach, and hid among the trees, became one of the many shadows. He wanted to see Freddie, – the man who knew something important about him.  

Only it was the red–haired curly woman. She was pacing the beach, hugging herself, and waiting for the man that hadn’t come.

Hannibal approached her silently from behind.

– This is private property, Miss Lounds, – he said politely, but this politeness seemed artificial. Inhuman, somehow.

– Where is he? – her voice was a bit too confident for a really confident person.

– If you are waiting for my brother, you do it so in vain. He is sound asleep and doesn’t want to be disturbed.

– It’s very funny, doctor Lecter. I need to speak to Will Graham, or The Chesapeake Ripper.

– You are making a mistake. He doesn’t know anything about that.

– And that’s why he asked you to… smuggle him abroad as your brother? His illness is just a trick. You said it to Doctor Bloom yourself, that it is possible that he is the Ripper.

I don’t know if he has fooled you, or convinced you, but...

– Fooled… – Hannibal articulated it slowly, as if trying to figure out an unknown taste. – It can’t be. I know when people are lying, and Will wouldn’t use me. He is my friend, I believe him, Miss Lounds. You are confused, I should ask you to go.

Freddie seemed to relax a bit.

– Tell me, if you change your mind.

– And do you guarantee me the safety from Chesapeake Ripper?

– No one can guarantee your safety now, doctor Lecter. I can only write an article which would make you look good. Really good, not like a man who helped the Reaper to flee.

– I will contemplate your proposal, – Like a gentleman, Hannibal opened the wicket door in front of Freddie, letting her out. The lock was broken, but he didn’t mention it.

Mikael waited for her to get out of sight, and then he left his shadow.

– Who am I, Hannibal? – he asked nervously, peering at the dark silhouette on the stairs. – Who is Will Graham?

– I’ve asked you not to wander at night, Mischa, – said the voice from the darkness.

They’ve returned in silence, but Mischa had already knew the truth. He knew it all along, just didn’t want to recognize it.

– I am the killer. The dreams are not just dreams. I’ve really done it.

Hannibal didn’t answer. At home, he poured the wine in a little kettle and peeled a lemon.

– I am that Chesapeake Ripper, big brother.

Cinnamon, clove, nutmeg. The smell of wine. Mischa became dizzy of smells and leaned on a wall heavily.

– I’ve tried to protect you, Mischa.

– And arranged a vacation to me? How far can we run before they will catch us? – He felt himself smiling a nervous, twisted smile. Hannibal turned to him. What was that look on his face? Was it an “I am sorry” or an “I don’t care” look?

– They have no proof, only the wild guesses Miss Lounds is building her journalistic investigation on.

– She doesn’t have any proofs. But I know the man who has.

– And who might it be? – The wine spurtled, but he ignored it.

– Will Graham.

– I knew you would remember this name sooner or later, – brother took the kettle from fire and wiped the pink puddles from the white surface. – This man won’t harm you anymore. You’ve killed him.

 

–  He survived. – Mikael winced and tugged his hair as if to pull some thought out of his brain. – He is here… always here… I should try again and kill him for sure, but...

Brother came to him, placed his hands upon his shoulders lovingly, and kissed him on the forehead.

He ought not to have done do it.

This platonic brotherly kiss awakened too much: anger, irritation, bitterness, taboo...

And desire.

He desired not to be Mikael Lecter anymore.

– Are we really brothers? – Mischa said softly, not looking at him. He knew that he wouldn’t see anything.

– Would I care so much for a stranger? – his voice was calm, but his fingers clenched tight on Mikael’s shoulders.

– No. Never, – Mischa whispered, looking at the arrogant curve of his lips. – Anyone but you.

 

He had got his cup of hot wine and dived into the sleep.

There was only one Door left.

It led to a kitchen, where a balding man was pressing the knife blade to a young girl’s throat.

Mikael shot him several times, bullet after bullet, and every shot was rewarding.

It brought sense. Clarity. Peace, even.

Now he had his own place in this world, his own role. He was a killer.

At last, the man fell. His daughter was trembling on the floor, the blood spilling from the dip deep red cut on her throat. It was the first time when Hannibal wasn’t just an observer. He stepped out of the shadow, knelt beside her and pinched her artery in one swift, steady motion.  

He is not Will Graham, – Mischa lowered his gun and winced in disappointment.

There should be another door. The one he didn’t notice.

 

Before leaving the house, Hannibal has checked on the gun in the box, laying on a mantlepiece. The gun was still there.

When he was putting on his coat on, a piece of paper slipped from his pocket and fell to the floor. He didn’t notice this. Maybe he thought that Mischa was sleeping, but little brother watched him from the stairs, breathless.  
      Mischa didn’t touch his breakfast. All he need was a gun.  
      He wanted to talk with Freddie Lounds. Just talk.

“She should tell me about Will Graham”, – he said to himself, going up the asphalted road to the chalets for rent, scattered upon the hill. – “I won’t do anything. I’ll just ask her where to find him”.  
      He didn’t want to kill her.  
 He has tied her with the rope he found in laundry room just to prevent her from running away and calling the police.  
      He duct taped her mouth only to shut her up and give himself time to think,  
      She couldn’t answer the simple question: “Who is Will Graham?” “What?” was not an answer. She needed time to think too, memories don’t return fast, even with psychotherapy, even with hypnosis and drugs, – he understood that much from his time with Hannibal.  
      He sat on a standard IKEA bed in front of Freddie, still holding the gun.  
      – So, you know nothing about Will Graham, – he said. The woman seemed to be willing to talk, at last, so he tore the duct tape off.  
      – In a the clothesroom, – she said, looking at him with big, greedy eyes, as if not to miss any detail of this scene. The gears in her head were turning, making him, this house, and her herself into steady printed columns of text.  
      The green door into the clothesroom wasn’t much different from the Doors of his dreams, and he opened it without hesitation.  
      The little bedroom narrowed, poured into a hallway, and at the end of this hallway a man stood, pointing the gun at Mischa.

Some unknown exhausted, pale grey–eyed man: half junkie, half martyr stuck between sanctitude and madness. The man had dark, wavy hair, unshaven cheeks, and he looked nowhere near like Hannibal. No high, asian–like cheekbones, no unbeautiful sensuality – just a simple commonly pretty face. Nothing from the Lecters.

 

As nothing it could be.

Will lowered the gun. The emptiness crashed him – a salty and bitter wave, preventing him from breathing, stuck in his cramped throat.

The feeling of loneliness he grew unaccustomed to.    
     

The second wave nearly swept him from his feet – relief. He caught his white whale, his last witness, himself, and returned.  
 He was alive. He was whole. He was real. The real man in a real world where a mirror is just a mirror, and Freddie Lounds needs help. And some apologies, too.  
– And what about me? – asked Mikael Lecter, the pale, withered and thinned ghost. – What about Hannibal?  
 – I’ll think about it, – he promised, returning to the bedroom.

He must have spent a long time in the clothes room, because Freddie wasn’t there anymore, and Hannibal was sitting in her armchair sipping dark wine, almost black, like blood, and reading the newspaper with another “meurtre” in it.    
– I’m waiting for you, Mischa. – he said commonly. – I hope you got everything done.

Will looked at him and some dull pain was forming in his chest. The pain, he knew, was contagious, and soon it would belong to Hannibal.  
– Mischa is no longer here, – he said. – I am sorry.  
Hannibal put the newspaper away. He didn’t blink, like a curious snake.  Something was building inside him, and Will shivered at a thought of what this “something” might be.  
      – I’m afraid you are wrong, Will, –  he talked to him in the same tone as if they were in Baltimore, at his office. – Your place in this world belongs to Mischa. You’ve revived so many beasts, nightmares and murderers before, let them see through your eyes and talk with your voice… but how many people have you actually saved? I will make you to save one real person. One good and innocent person. One beautiful soul, which is deserveds to be saved. Just let the pendulum swing one more time. Let the broken cup be whole again. Please.  
  Will came closer and lowered to his knees, placing his hands at the armrests.  
    – Mischa just can’t exist in this world. – He cautiously watched Hannibal’s face, ready to do… what exactly? – I know it. He was inside me for all these months and this life was tormenting him. He is just a shadow of a man he could have been, he will never grow up, he will never become real. He is just the image you remember,    
      – Do you think he should disappear, like all dead men do? – he asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.  
      – No. – Will carefully touched his chest on the left, where the heart was beating steadily under the expensive vest. – You remember him better than anyone else. He will live in your memory palace forever. There will always be place for him. Am I right?

Hannibal was silent.  
      – You may eat me. – Will began to unbutton his shirt, slowly, looking into his eyes. – Come on. I will be safe with you, like Mischa is. Just commit me to your memory,  
  He was too late to notice the golden gleam in his eyes, his fast movement.  
      Strong, sinewy fingers seized his jaw, and the next moment was all hot and moist sweetness of the wine and sharp pain in the bitten lip.  
      A dark, gleaming blood drop trickled down his chin, down his neck. It slowed down between collarbones, and slid down the heavy raising chest, under the shirt.  
      To the heart.  
       
      ***  
  The sunset was already burning the horizon, turning the town into a blooming golden rose, when they went down the slope to the shore.

– Why Florence? – Will asked. It didn’t bother him much, though. He could close his eyes and point at any place on the map, it wouldn’t make difference.  
– Don’t you like it? – Hannibal’s hair was in a little mess, and he was constantly trying to sleek it down. – You have never been there, I’m sure.  
 – I don’t really care, and the only Italian word I know is: “grazie”. You should teach me.  
 – We are always teaching each other, in a way. – Suddenly, he stopped. – I’m sorry, I’ve almost forgot. Go home, Will, I’ll join you in a minute. Mi scusi.  
  – What the matter?

Hannibal smiled, looking at the former Freddie’s chalet.  
– I should pack lunch for us.  
Will shoved his hands into his pokets and turned away.  
He made his choice and didn’t look back.  
This world can’t house everyone.  
Sometimes, there is no place even for two.

 


End file.
